Yellow Jacket
by SecretGeneration
Summary: When music sensation and Broadway/Hollywood starlet, Rachel Berry, house sits for her mother, Shelby, in the Suburbs of Premont Falls, she runs into a familiar face. From there, secrets, mysteries, infidelities, love, and drama ensue.
1. Chapter 1

**There aren't many new Faberry stories as of late, and I wanted to write my own piece since I still love Faberry so much. I've always been interested in Suburban Faberry and how that would turn out, and I came up with this. Updates may be slow though. But I hope you enjoy this first chapter nevertheless. It is unbeta'd.**

* * *

Chapter One:

On Magenta Lane, the street where two cars mark almost every driveway and front lawns stay manicured to perfection, Lucy Quinn Fabray is seen as a leader.

At eight she led her classmates in a protest against their yellow-toothed art teacher, Mr Ipson, in the hopes that he might one day bathe and spare them the nosebleeds. At fifteen she led the hallways of St Belle Mord Academy with her steely glare and rigid social standards. At seventeen she led her cheerleading squad to an illustrious national championship. At twenty-five she led her clothing line, Lucy Q Couture, to its first million dollars. At thirty-five she paid to have every front lawn on Magenta Lane professionally styled, leading the street to the number one spot in the Premont Falls Curb Appeal Awards, which consequently upped the value of the area.

Indeed. Those that regard Lucy Quinn Fabray see her as a leader. They style their hair after hers, design their homes after hers, and keep their imperfections tucked away behind radiant smiles, so that their families might appear as well-oiled a machine as hers. But when she looks in the mirror a leader is the furthest thing from what she sees, and despite her classic ethereal beauty, that is why she avoids them.

"Not baking one of your famous apricot pies for our new celebrity neighbor?"

His tone is mocking and spiteful - this boy who she gave life to. Still, Quinn's fingers are mild-mannered as they move amongst the market research reports that splay her office desk, her tone soft and distracted as she replies, "Shelby and I don't get along. You know that."

Her face is less angular bathed in the desk lamp's light, syrup-honey eyes downcast, lost amongst the paperwork. It's a rare snapshot wherein she exudes soft approachability; Blake Fabray-Evans can almost recall a time when he looked to this woman to fix all of his problems. To nurture him. But he shuts that thought down swift, like a boot upon the back of a spider.

"You know," he begins sagely, wagging his index finger as he trails measured steps towards the desk, "there used to be a time when that didn't matter. When you'd bake a pie just to have an excuse to go round and establish who runs things around here."

"How observant of you."

"You have no idea how observant."

That gets Quinn's attention, that tone. It gets her to look up directly into her son's gray eyes, which gleam a sadistic knife-edgeness. "What are you talking about?"

Blake's jowl elongates with a wolfish grin. "I don't know; what do you think I'm talking about?"

Quinn lets her pen clatter to the desk and clasps her hands atop the table, her entire demeanor shifting to that of an unfeeling CEO. "You can hate me for as long as you want. But what I won't have is you pressing me in my home, or disparaging my standing amongst my peers. One more step out of line and your father and I _will_ send you away."

"Send me," Blake taunts. "'That's sure to get the neighbors talking."

"Oh Blake," Quinn coos with a patronizing slant of the head, "d'you really think I haven't already concocted a story to explain away your potential absence?" She watches her teenage son's broad shoulders slump a little at that, and she relinquishes the false sorrow, her magazine-cover features hinting at a smirk. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you, but if you say a word to anybody about our family affairs, you can kiss goodbye to your trust fund."

"How delightfully predictable!" Blake cries, full of mock surprise. "But if there's one thing you've instilled in me, mom, it's savvy." He walks the pointed toes of his custom made shoes right up to the desk, and calmly lays his palms flat to it, face a breath from his mother's. "Once that money's mine, that's when I'll write my tell-all about what it was like growing up in this household, with a frigid phony for a mother."

"After the Huntington scandal, you should know that if Quinn Fabray doesn't want something published, it doesn't get published."

Blake eases back off the desk, smirking down at the woman who betrayed him. Ruined him. The woman who's going to get her comeuppance, even if it's the last thing he ever does. "We'll see, mom. We'll see."

In that moment Quinn realizes that her habitual avoidance of mirrors is futile, because she's a mother.

And children are the most frightful mirrors of all.

* * *

Rachel places the book down on the kitchen counter, reaching past it for her glass of wine. How many times would she pick it up and read that witty opening sentence, only to put it down again? She peers at it, the book that all of her industry friends have told her is a must read, wondering why she can barely get past the tongue-in-cheek dedications that splay the racy cover's inside page.

 _Men Just Want Sex!_

She scoffs and grumbles, "if only," under her breath, tossing her wine back with a hearty gulp.

Despite the book title's claim, men don't _just_ want sex. At least, not in her experience. Let her tell it; they want to use, abuse, and misuse - raid her soul for every treasure, and own her. But that's not why she's visiting the picturesque suburbs of Premont Falls.

Not solely anyway.

"You're not still reading that book."

Rachel's aimless gaze finds purpose as she glances at the reason why she's the newest resident on Magenta Lane - the woman who gave her life, and never much else. Shelby Corcoran. She erects her slumped spine for the struggle that she suspects is imminent, and pats her book with clumsy force. "That's exactly what I'm doing. Not reading it. Still."

The flippant comment stilts Shelby's gait, slowing that haughty knock of her heels about the marble floor. She eyes the fly-away strands of mussed brown hair, the quietly impaired motor skills, the glossiness to those dark soulful eyes that mirror her own. The empty wine glass, clutched like a lifeline, within her daughter's hand - and everything about Rachel's demeanor suddenly becomes clear.

"Not here two days, and you're already on the sauce. You should fit right in."

"I'm not here to, to _fit_ _in_."

"No," Shelby agrees within the second, "you're here to prove how much better than me you are."

Rachel snorts. "Like my superiority over you was _ever_ in question." She unearths a bottle of Barbaresco from somewhere, accidentally clunking it against the counter's side, before willing stability into her wrist and pouring herself another glass.

It takes her a moment, but Shelby swallows the malicious jab with manufactured grace, clicking her figurative jaw back in place. Only then does she pull out the barstool next to her daughter, and perch herself on its hard plastic saddle. She gently disarms Rachel of her wine and places it on the counter next to the book, so that - at last - it's just the two of them, their eyes locking square for the first time since Rachel's arrival.

"Such venom," she whispers. "I like it. Venom's good. That's exactly the kind of bite you're going to need if you hope to hold your own amongst the catty yellow jackets who think they run suburbia. Your fame alone -"

"Oh please. What are they going to do - destroy me in a bake off?"

Shelby averts her gaze, looking past Rachel into the lounge's quietly crackling fireplace, and into memories that she'd rather forget. "I wouldn't be so sure of yourself."

"In case you've forgotten - and we all know how much you'd like to - I'm Rachel Berry. Self-assuredness is what I do. It wasn't like I had a mother to believe in me now, was it?"

"These women don't like me," Shelby explains.

"I wonder why."

"Some of them will do what they can to get back at me for perceived affronts that... only exist in their minds. Whilst you're here be aware of that, is all I'm saying."

"If I were less _aware_ I'd think you were telling me this because you were looking out for me. Because you care."

Shelby's jaw constricts, throat bobbing beneath skin, but if anything's actually going on in her mind, her stoic demeanor keeps it a secret.

It's nothing that Rachel's not used to.

Even so, her face torques around a sour smile as she shakes her head in disbelief that she can't quite justify, because the silence has yet again proven what she already knows. Shelby doesn't give a shit about her.

"Rachel -"

"No!" Rachel raises her voice, unconcerned with how the Barbaresco sloshes to the counter like puddles of blood as she snatches up her glass. "No. You needn't worry, Shelby. Our dysfunctional relationship, along with your, your crack house days, will remain a secret because for as long as I'm here, I intend to keep to myself."

Shelby relaxes. "Good. I leave in the morning."

* * *

In room eighteen on the fifteenth floor of The Witherlund Charleston Hotel, the curtains are drawn on a dazzling city skyline. The TV is black, and the far table's welcome mints: untouched. The air is seductive with the compounded scent of sex and Premont Falls' finest scotch - Brooke Novak's favorite. She inhales deep, eyes falling shut as her hips twitch and her sex clenches.

"Hey, don't get any ideas of a second round. I have to leave in a few minutes," the warm soft body beside her murmurs.

And what a body it is. Brook lifts her eyelids, her gaze trailing heat from taught creamy abs to gloriously pert coral nipples, to the syrup-honey eyes that watch her with knowing reproach. In an effort to escape the inevitable she snuggles into the most perfect alabaster neck that she's ever dragged her tongue across, groaning, "just one more hour, Quinn. Please."

Quinn expels an over-it sigh and untangles herself from the soft tan limbs that have become her captor. Her one of a kind cashmere trench coat hangs from the quaint wooden chair that faces the curtains, and one of her Lucy Q Couture shoes rests sideways and upside down on the bedside cabinet. The bedsheets are twisted at the foot of the bed, pillows strewn about the room like God himself had blown through.

It's a visual representation of the primal thing that grips Quinn when she's around beautiful women who will take their clothes off for her. The primal thing that grips her when she allows herself to be who she is. She can't help but enjoy the chaotic scene - enjoy that it's in stark contrast to the suffocating aesthetic order that surrounds her ninety-five percent of the time.

"... Ok... Uh, so when do you wanna do this again? I'm free tomorrow?" Brooke offers, hopeful.

Quinn scoots across the bed, away from Brooke, and plants her feet on the majestic beige carpet, the plush fibers gently crunching as she begins to step into her black lace panties. "I have client meetings all day tomorrow, an event to prepare for the day after that, and I still have to pencil in a meet with Mayor Cromwell."

"Oh yeah?" Brooke husks, crawling over to Quinn to lavish her bare upper thigh with hot, wet, sensual kisses. "You're so sexy when you talk about stuff like meeting up with state officials," she whispers between nips.

"Didn't I just tell you not to get any ideas? Last thing I need is for Sam to smell you on me when I get home."

Brooke clicks her tongue but retreats anyway, huffing as she reaches down to tug the sheets up over her body. "Too late," she taunts cattily. "And Sam wouldn't give a damn so long as you invited him to join us next time. You know, like our original arrangement."

The very thought turns Quinn's lip up - that the magic of two women being intimate might be desecrated in such a way. Again.

As she buttons her coral blouse she calls upon the memory of those evenings with regret and guilt. She'd known what she was doing, that she was feeding Brooke to the depraved monster that lives within Sam. But she'd wanted it too much - to feel silken hourglass hips beneath her own. To lap at the source of that maddening intimate feminine scent. Sam's involvement had just been a means to an end, a way for Quinn to finally be with a woman whilst honoring the terms of her marriage vows. Unlike she had in the past. Brooke had taken every violent thrust, and Quinn had rejuvenated her body with delicate explorative caresses afterward.

She blinks herself back into the room and grabs her coat, turning to face the third person in her relationship. "You really want to go through that again with Sam?" Quinn asks, arching a solemn brow.

Brook sighs at length, shoulders deflating. "Of course not. I thought I was gonna need a hip replacement and a new uterus after that last time." In a manner that tugs Quinn's conscience, Brooke smirks sadly and looks to the tasteful design on the bedsheet, tracing it with a finger. "I was just... upset that you're leaving. That's all. I love... spending time together, and I miss you when I don't see you."

Quinn slides a clip into her hair and fastens her flowing blonde tresses into a neat updo. "I think we should put an end to these meet ups."

Brooke's eyebrows crumple in towards each other, like she's just been told that there's nothing more that doctors can do for a dying relative.

"You're too involved. This means too much to you," Quinn adds rather callously.

"No. Quinn -"

"Brooke!"

That fastens the young brunette's lips.

"You were my first female lover," Quinn explains, grabbing her designer purse, "but I don't want you like you want me. We'll continue on as normal at work."

Brooke tears the sheets from her body, pounding her fists into the mattress one good time. "If you end this I'll make sure that everybody finds out about us, including Sam, and Blake, and Mayor fucking Cromwell!"

Quinn slips into her shoes and heads towards the door, confident in the manner that she tosses, "no you won't," over her shoulder...

"Because you're in love with me," she murmurs, once safe on the other side of the door -

"Good evening, Miss Fabray," a smartly-dressed staff member purrs as he walks by pushing a cart of fancy dishes.

The food's warm, toasty, herbal aroma closes in around Quinn's senses, grounding her enough to where she grants the young man a hospitable smile. "Good evening. Beautiful night out tonight, isn't it?"

"Don't remind me," he chuckles, gesturing to his bowtie, "I'm stuck working."

He's just the type of guy whose attention one would expect a beautiful, established, middle-aged woman to be flattered by, so Quinn plays along - even throws in a wink, which he suavely returns.

But she knows that it won't always be this easy, that it's just a matter of time before she goes to bed with the wrong woman. The woman who'll seduce her heart as well as her eyes. The woman who will be able to turn her inside out and upside down with little more than a look.

The woman who will make her want to give up the facade.

* * *

Rachel Berry's seen better mornings. Like the morning that she got the part of Fanny Brice, or the morning that she got the call to inform her about her Tony nomination. Or the morning that she received her first bouquet of roses from her then boyfriend. (Who turned out to be as prickly as the rose thorns in the end.)

Certainly, Rachel's seen much better mornings than this, ones where her stomach wasn't queasy from the previous night's wine, and her mind wasn't jumbled from interaction with an indifferent parent.

She massages her right temple and begins to weave cautious steps down the winding staircase, unaware that when she reaches the bottom to find that Shelby's luggage is already gone, her morning will, in an instant, become a great one...

It's around two pm when the doorbell chimes.

Rachel startles out of her phone conversation, throwing a curious look over her shoulder towards the door, where a short feminine outline shimmers through the stained glass panels. "Someone's here, so I'm going to have to go. But the answer's no. Tell the network I'm not on board with those changes! And if Joshua calls again to inquire about my whereabouts, threaten a restraining order."

"Got'cha."

"Thanks for keeping me up to speed, Cindy. And thanks for not only being the best agent a girl could ask for, but for also being a good friend too."

A comical snort sounds. "You say that like I stick around for anything other than those checks you send me."

"You are so not allowed to tease my ears with New York banter right now, otherwise I might just fly back home."

Cindy gasps, "Rachel, don't say that unless you mean it; Rodney's driving me batshit!"

"I'm going now before I bust a rib laughing. Or, you know, before I say, 'I told you so.'"

"Ugh," Cindy grunts, "I hope those robotic Stepford Wives tear you to shreds. Anyway, see you Rach."

"Bye Cindy." Rachel hangs up and grins, fueled by the little slice of home that the phone call afforded her.

She slips her cell phone into her back pocket as she heads for the front door and unlocks it.

"Oh hey! I'm Sugar Motta. I live at number eighty-nine? Just thought I'd come say hello - welcome you to Magenta Lane."

Rachel gives the jovial little woman her show smile. "Oh. Well thanks. It's nice to meet you, Sugar. I'm Rachel -"

"Berry - yeah, I know." Sugar blushes, confessing, "we've all seen you on TV."

And suddenly Rachel gets the impression that her stay on Magenta Lane has been discussed to death over brunch scones and morning coffee grabs.

"You're gonna love it here, seriously. Premont Falls is good to its celebrity residents," Sugar gushes.

"I hate to disappoint you, but I haven't moved in permanently. I'm simply house-sitting for Shelby whilst she visits a sick relative in Italy."

"Oh my!" Sugar gasps, clutching her heart. "She didn't mention anything!"

"It was sort of an emergency, and I was planning on coming here anyway for a work project. So it worked out for us both."

"Oh. So how do you know Shelby? She an aunt or something? I mean, you look so much like her. Can never hide from family, huh?"

Echoes of last night's awful conversation reverberate in Rachel's mind, and they're loud enough to threaten her smile. Even so, a part of her wants to tell Sugar that she's the daughter Shelby abandoned thirty-six years ago...

"We're actually just friends," she decides to say, signing the lie with a sturdier smile.

But Sugar frowns, and it sticks around for much longer than Rachel likes, so she adopts an air of fond nostalgia, adding, "the two of us met ten years ago whilst working on the Broadway production of _Milestone_. I still remember how the stage smelled; like pepperoni pizza, Donald Brazer's ghastly cologne, and the awful glue that our costume designer would use if ever there was a wardrobe malfunction. Ah," she sighs, drawing upon blissful memories that don't exist, "those were the days."

"Tell me about it."

Wracked with confusion, Rachel raises her eyebrows.

"Ten years ago I had a twenty inch waist and no C-section scars. Those truly were the days," Sugar explains, chuckling.

There and then Rachel decides that Sugar Motta is someone she could quite easily get along with, and that's why she accepts when Sugar extends an invite to her neighborly game night, scheduled for later in the evening.

* * *

If there's one thing that Quinn Fabray knows, it's that high school never ends.

Sure people grow up, assume responsibilities, and present to the world images of civil, well-rounded, mature human beings. But those juvenile patterns of thought, more often than not, remain.

Quinn sees it in her employees, the way that they clique up and attack anything outside of themselves.

She sees it in the seventy-year-old UPS man, who 'accidentally,' tramples blooming flower beds belonging to the homeowners he perceives as rude, when in reality they're simply to busy to talk.

She sees it in her former mistress, Brooke Novak, who thinks she can win her attention back by flirting with Jessica Farlang at work.

But most of all, she sees it in her neighbors...

"Is Quinn here yet?"

Darcy's expression sours. "Why? It's not like she ever participates in the actual games. That woman's as stiff as a two-week old corpse."

"That's the funniest thing I've heard all day," Kitty chimes cattily. "It's also the truest."

"Right. And I hate it when she compliments my apparel. It's always so patronizing, like I'm _finally_ learning to put together fashions that aren't, by her standards, complete abominations."

"Well... to be fair, she does own a very successful clothing line," Jenny points out. "Vander Wilson wore a Lucy Q piece to the Semblance Awards just last night."

"Yeah? Well nobody asked you."

"Nobody had to, Kitty. The facts speak for themselves. Don't they Jenny?"

At the sound of _that_ voice, Darcy Grace's face blanches, as does Kitty Wilde's. They exchange panicked glances before they both look to Quinn, their lips running frantically without words, whilst Jenny Higgins conceals her snigger in a sip of her wine.

"Oh and by the way, Darcy, I _love_ that your heels match your outfit," Quinn says, allowing quite the condescending, ' _this time_ ,' to reverberate in the silence.

Darcy gives a stilted nod and smiles like she's biting down on a mouthful of broken glass. "T-Thanks."

Yes. If there's one thing that Quinn Fabray knows, it's that high school never ends.

That's why she _always_ maintains her position at the top of the pyramid...

"Oh, thank fuck you're here," Santana gasps, taking Quinn by the hand and pulling her out into the hallway.

"Where are you taking me, Lopez?"

Quinn gets her answer the moment she finds herself locked inside of the nearest downstairs washroom. "No, not tonight," she immediately protests.

But the beautifully-dressed Latina is already fishing the blunt out of her bra. "Oh come on. Live a little. Besides, this little get together could put the dead to sleep. Seriously, how many of these snorefest game nights is Sugar gonna host this year?" She unravels the neatly presented towel from its wall holder, and plugs the thin slither of light at the bottom of the door, before pulling out her lighter.

Quinn watches her friend. Perhaps the closest thing to a genuine friend that she has. She watches her, admiring her ability to be free and wild and... herself. Her inability to be anybody else.

"What?" Santana asks, offering an amused grin at the fond glint in her best friend's eye.

"Nothing. I just - I can't get stoned." Quinn glances her wristwatch. "I've got to meet with Mayor Cromwell and his goons tonight to talk about this fundraiser. I only came to show my face."

"And remind everyone who sits at the top of the pyramid," Santana finishes for her, a smirk fluttering at the corners of her lips as she watches her friend through her eyelashes.

"Well, it's been a while since I attended a neighborly gathering. It was time."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Come on - like Mayor-fucks-all-the-girls-and-makes-'em-cry doesn't blaze a little Mary Jayne every now and then when no one's lookin'."

Quinn chuckles, but even that is done with an erect posture and a stiff neck.

"Jesus, would you loosen up? You're not meeting with Mayor-fucks-all-the-girls right now. I'd ditch both you and this party for Britt, but she's working late. So your duty, according to the best friend's handbook, is to smoke this with me and keep my ass entertained. Think you can do that?"

Quinn grins, amused. But it's clear that she still isn't all the way sold. So Santana drags the blunt across her alabaster nostrils. "It's real good shit," she drawls melodically.

Feeling a smirk calve its way into her features, Quinn swipes both the lighter and the blunt from Santana's fingers. "Mayor Cromwell's not fucking these girls," she corrects her friend with rare impishness, before sparking up.

"Speaking of your blatant homosexuality, which nobody seems to be able to pick up on but me and Britt -"

"Sshh!" Quinn hisses as she bats away smoke clouds. "Kitty and Darcy probably have their ears pressed to the door, and I don't have the patience to make any more media scandals disappear this year!"

"Chill. I was just tryna ask what you thought of our Berry new neighbor. Saw her taking out the trash this morning, and if she isn't the hottest little thing in person, I'm not Hispanic."

Blowing out pretty smoke ribbons, Quinn passes the blunt to Santana. "She's off limits."

"Why? She's famous, so she knows how to keep a secret, and it's pretty well-documented that she's bi. Did I mention that she's stunning? If you don't pounce, shit, me and Britt sure will."

"Well, there's the fact that..." Quinn eyes meet Santana's. "She's Shelby's daughter."

Santana halts the blunt inches from her lips, the smoke dancing up from its end the only motion in the still room.

"After she sent Kaitlyn after me and my family, I got James to look into her background," Quinn explains. "Berry's her daughter."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in his technicolor dreamcoat. This is... totally one of those things that should've been obvious, but totally wasn't. They look alike, their mother and daughter age, and they're both ga-ga for Broadway. Practically Siamese twins without the awkwardness."

"Well you know where the best place to hide a secret is."

Santana nods once. "Out in the open. The question is: why's it a secret?"

"Because Shelby doesn't want anyone to know that she illegally sold her womb to two gay men in order fund her crack addiction, back in the eighties."

"Holy fuck, and I thought my family was jacked up. What a sneaky old bitch. Who hides a kid?" Santana's frown deepens. "A wildly successful kid. You know she's gotta be mad that Rachel made it further in Hollywood than she did. Sure as hell makes you wonder what else that bitch is hiding."

"If she wants to play games, we can," Quinn says, more to herself than to anybody else.

Sugar Motta balances the silver platter on her palm. She's careful not to bump the chefs that populate her kitchen as she makes her way into her lounge and offers her guests an assortment of canapes. At the show of enthusiasm, she weaves through the many different games - the blackjack table, the poker table, and the charades re-enactments - meeting her guest's culinary needs with a smile so dazzling that the majority don't question it.

But unfortunately for her, Fraser Heights isn't so easily fooled.

"Hey Sugar, didn't you say that Rachel Berry would be joining us this evening?"

And just like that, Sugar's dazzling smile slips away. "Well..." she begins, chuckling off the awkwardness of having all eyes suddenly draw to her.

Fraser smirks. "It was all you were talking about a few hours ago - how you'd hit it off with _the_ Rachel Berry. How she just couldn't wait to attend this evening, so that she could try your avocado and feta cheese canapes. So..." The handsome older man places his last two cards down, effectively besting his blackjack opponent. "Where is she?"

Hushed sniggers hiss in the silence, and not for the first time Sugar asks herself why she bothers with these people.

It's a question they all ask themselves from time to time.

"I'm... sure she'll be here soon," Tina Cohen-Chang speaks up, receiving a grateful nod from the flustered host.

And that's when the doorbell rings.

"If you'll all excuse me," Sugar's all too happy to announce, as she places the platter on a nearby table and heads for the door.

Just when she pulls it open, Quinn and Santana spill into the hallway, which at the same time seems to fill with the scent of excess perfume.

Sugar ignores the unexplained smell though, much more concerned with smiling relief at the pretty starlet who's stood on her doorstep. "You made it!"

Rachel's gaze floats past the happy host, meeting with Quinn's. "Of course I made it," she replies. "Long time no see. I hope you're well."

Sugar frowns, experiencing much confusion up until the point that she notices where Rachel's attention has travelled to.

And it's focused upon Quinn, who's showcasing that elegant posture and majestically muted smile as she responds, "I'm good, thank you."

Sugar allows Rachel inside, closes the door, and then turns to face the three other women in her hallway. "Do we all know each other?"

"Quinn and I tend to run into one another at carpeted events every now and then. Not that we've ever exchanged more than quick hellos and goodbyes," Rachel says, to which Santana side-eyes her secretive best friend... who doesn't skip a beat, despite all the weed in her system.

"Yes, I think we last saw one another at Bar Glow's opening in West Hollywood."

Rachel nods. "That's right."

"You looked wonderful that night, Rachel. But I couldn't stop myself from wondering what you'd look like in one of my pieces. I'd love for you to wear Lucy Q to your next outing. I have just the form-fitting dress. It'll look and feel as though you're dressed in silk."

It takes everything inside of Santana to keep from mumbling, 'I'll bet.' Instead, what she does say is: "Hi. Before Quinn styles you to death; Santana Lopez. My wife and I live at number eighty-three. Nice to see a new face on the street."

"Thank you, Santana. I never know whether to introduce myself or not, but I'm - "

Santana holds her hand up. "I know who you are. Everybody does."

Rachel nods, sending an interested smile Quinn's way. "And I can assure you that you don't have to sell me on wearing your fashions; I admire your work, and I'm extremely flattered by your offer! I am, however, taking a break from the scene at the moment, but I'd be delighted to wear one of your pieces to my next event. I'll have my team setup with yours?"

"There's no need for us to get our teams involved, Rachel. Now that you're in the city, maybe you'd like to come by and select style variations yourself one of these days."

"Oh, you live in Premont Falls?"

"On this very street."

"Well then. That's an interesting surprise," Rachel muses, trying to figure out how - or even if - Quinn fits into the street's seeming vendetta against her mother.

"In all of your conversations with Shelby, she never mentions to you that she lives directly across from me?" Quinn challenges, though she half makes it sound like it's harmless.

"Actually, Quinn," Rachel says with certain bite, "whenever our busy schedules allow for us to see each other, we usually have a whole host of other things to discuss. Don't keel over in shock, but your name never comes up."

"That's funny because neither does yours."

Santana glances between them, noting the slow decline of Rachel's smile in comparison to her best friend's coy but victorious one.

"... You never offer to give _me_ any of your one-of-a-kind designs, Quinn," Sugar jests, sensing the inexplicable tension despite all the smiling.

"That's because you only have fifty Twitter followers."

Sugar gasps in offence. "And that's just Santana getting warmed up," she warns Rachel. "Come on girls. Let's go mingle with our neighbors before I start asking whose perfume's strangling my senses. Rachel, I wanna introduce you to Fraser first."

As Sugar leads her away Rachel glances back, and when Quinn's eyes meet hers Quinn knows she has no business noticing how sultry Rachel looks in her skinny jeans, heels, crop top blazer, and bowler hat.

"Easy tiger," Santana quips out the side of her mouth. "I know you have like this hard-on for the ones who can stand toe to toe with you. But off limits, remember?"

Quinn sucks in a breath and holds it, slow to utter an airy, "off limits."

* * *

 **Reviews are like candy ;) Let me know what you think so far, and if this is something you are interested in.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I am flattered by the reviews. Lovely to know that the vibe I was aiming for was received by readers ;) This is most likely going to be a slow burn type romance between Rachel and Quinn. No guarantee though, since I go where the characters take me.**

 **This is a long one, so grab yourself some popcorn, or whatever you like to eat when consuming media :)**

 **KurtHummelIsGarbage, where did I come from? It's a secret, as per my pen name :P Thanks for that lovely review. I really felt it, and was inspired to write more because of it.**

 **Othnaley23, lovely to hear that you are hooked after the first chapter. Let's see if I can still hold your interest with this second chapter :/ :)**

 **ilovemycandy, me too. I love faberry, and I never want it to die. This is me trying to breathe a little life back into it and enjoy it again, instead of worrying about it slowing down.**

 **Le Diablo Blanc2, thank you :) Let's see if you still like them after this chapter :)**

 **Smix48, thank you :)**

* * *

It started with a disagreement over something small and forgettable, two middle-aged women sharing opposing beliefs at a dinner party. First came the manufactured smiles to temper the heat behind each opposing point, then came the slightly elevated voices, and then came the contagious silence, much to the chagrin of dutiful host: Karen Maplebeet.

It continued because neither Shelby nor Quinn had been willing to back down to the other. Forth came the carefully wrapped digs, delivered with razor edge wit whenever they were within five feet of each other. Fifth came Shelby's attempts to turn the street against Quinn.

 _Then_ came Quinn's accidental discovery of Shelby's fiance's... hobby.

 _"Thank God I caught you out here," Quinn says, rushing across the pavement when she notices that Gary has just gotten out of his car. She touches his forearm and holds his eye as she tells him, "there's turbulence coming from Monica White's house. It might be worth checking out just to be on the safe side."_

 _He's not in his Police Chief uniform, but Gary Harper doesn't need it - he becomes vigilant, stealth, and investigative right away, foregoing the flirtatious pleasantries he usually greets Quinn's with to peer down the street towards the White household. "What kind of turbulence?" he asks._

 _"Look, I don't want to say it," she tells him, smoothing down the lapels on her coat against the breeze. "People are always listening, and if what I think is going on isn't, it won't matter once the gossip begins to make the rounds. Monica won't appreciate -"_

 _"No, sweet cheeks, I understand."_

 _"Neither will her husband."_

 _Something about Gary changes in that moment. His charming southern warmth dissolves before her eyes, settling in its place this air of tempered hostility that Quinn isn't used to. At least not from him, which she's always thought strange, considering her ongoing rivalry with Shelby, his fiancée. She imagines that this is the demeanor he projects when he argues with Shelby over small domesticities that have grown into mountains, and Quinn has to ask, "is there a problem?"_

 _"I just don't think your concerns are unjustified here. I've been keeping an eye out ever since they moved in, and I don't like the way he orders Monica around. But this is what happens when good women marry down."_

 _There it is - that something. Something about the way he says they, and it sends ripples of icy realization up Quinn's spine... which only intensify when she notices something pointy and stark white through the back seat window of his car. She knows what it is even before her mind can articulate it, despite the fact that the majority of the garment is concealed by the night._

 _Her eyes narrow into the side of his face. "Do you have a problem with Monica's husband?"_

 _"We all have an issue with her husband, as we should. Difference is I'm the only one with the balls to say it."_

 _"Say what?"_

 _Gary's sight zips away from the White household towards the woman whose hobby is besting his fiancée, and in that moment he recognizes the potential harm that could come to his campaign to become Mayor._

 _"Say what?" Quinn repeats, stalking his face for the moment that he slides back in behind that mask._

 _"Oh!" And there's the moment that Gary, as she knows him, returns - the cunning mask even chuckles. "Oh no! Never that, Quinn." He shakes his head. "What sort of Mayor would I be if I was a-a racist?"_

 _"What sort of Mayor drives around with a KKK frock in the backseat of his car?"_

 _It_ grew worse when Quinn used her connections to cast light upon Chief Gary Harper's prejudices, effectively thwarting his run for Mayor and ruining his reputation to the point where fervent protests were held in the name of driving the bigot out of the community.

 _It_ became ugly when Gary left both Shelby and Premont Falls - a shadow of the man that he used to be - in search of a fresh start. First came Shelby's grief. Then came her need to harm Quinn Fabray in whatever way that she could, and from that came Kaitlyn Richmond, the daughter of an old drug buddy of Shelby's, who - for five thousand dollars - agreed to get involved with Blake Fabray-Evans in order to unearth some dirt on Quinn and report back.

 _It's_ still going on today because although it hadn't been the goal, Kaitlyn Richmond _was_ successful in further damaging Quinn's relationship with her son, and Shelby Corcoran is going to pay for that. One way or another.

"Where is she?"

"Italy," James answers. He lifts a padded tan envelope from inside of his jacket and hands it to Quinn, adding, "yesterday afternoon she checked into a hospital there. She's there for a rarely performed surgical procedure, which is banned in the States due to its high-percent death rate."

Quinn's eyebrow arches up over the rim of her dark oval sunglasses. "Sounds serious," she muses, nonchalant. "Any idea what's wrong with her?"

"She has a condition that causes her immune system to attack her ligament tissue. Legalized treatment for her condition is hit and miss," James replies, looking out over the vast rural area that surrounds them whilst Quinn sifts through the photos he provided. "The guy in that picture's her surgeon. Dr Caliano. He's a pioneer in the bio-technology that is used to perform the procedure. But again, it's risky."

"Karma, well aren't you just a bitch," Quinn taunts to no one in particular, as she flicks through one shot after the other. "Is it hereditary?" she finds herself asking, images of Rachel dancing away on stage crossing her mind.

James chuckles. "I'm just a private investigator. Not a doctor."

Like the forceful blow of a hammer to a nail, Quinn's eyes leave the pictures to pin the tall man. Not that he can see the glare that's being directed at him through her dark sunglasses. But he sure as hell feels the surrounding air bristle.

"I pay you well to look into things. In future, leave no stone unturned. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Has she undergone the procedure yet?"

James shakes his head no.

Quinn drops the photos back into the envelope and slips it under her arm. "I want to know if the condition is hereditary. Oh and if she dies give me a call. It would be a shame to waste an opportunity to celebrate."

* * *

 _This is the first time that Quinn has ever set foot in a trailer park. She's seen them on television, but nothing could have prepared her for the grim reality._

 _A tattered doll head, half buried in the dirt, squeaks under her heel, damn near toppling her if not for her impeccable balance and the attentive bodyguard that walks at her side. She clicks her tongue and nudges it to the surface with her foot, continuing on her path. There are unsupervised children with sticky frowning faces looking her up and down with every step that she takes, hostile suspicion prominent in each one. Mud-slung trailer doors hang open, revealing the cluttered unsanitary guts of the stationary vehicular shells._

 _Every cell in Quinn's body tells her that she'd be much happier somewhere else. Like an Ibiza beach, or anywhere that doesn't have rats scurrying around. But the part of her that is fiercely protective of all that she's built is on a mission, and that part is all it takes for her to stroll up to the trailer that matters. She knocks the flimsy door and waits._

 _For a while, the trailer doesn't make a peep. But then dull thuds begin to ring out from inside, and that's when Quinn tells her guard to, "wait here."_

 _Within seconds she's face to face with the woman who she's driven three hours to see. The skank who ruthlessly wreaked havoc in her family home._

 _"Hello Kaitlyn," Quinn says, climbing the two steps and barging her way into the trailer._

 _Kaitlyn doesn't say anything - doesn't react. She doesn't complain about the force with which Quinn has just collided with her shoulder, and she doesn't ask how Quinn found her. She simply stands there for a moment, trailer door wide open, and runs her tongue along her front teeth, resigning herself to the confrontation that's about to happen._

 _"Come in why don't you," she hisses to herself, slamming the door in._

 _Once it's just the two of them, Kaitlyn spins around with sarcastic cheer, chirping, "so what brings you here on this fine day?"_

 _Having shoved aside a pile of unsanitary clothes, Quinn leans her elbows on the cramped kitchen counter. "I couldn't stop thinking about that kiss, and figured I just had to have you."_

 _Kaitlyn barks a sardonic laugh. "No but, what do you actually want?"_

 _"Well..." Quinn takes her time. She begins to trail a fingertip over the gold buckle on her purse, over the expert stitching; the shiny gold panel that has Lucy Q engraved in it. "I may or may not have a weapon with me." Her wildly stoic autumnal eyes flicker up to Kaitlyn's. "In my purse."_

 _"What, you gonna shoot me? That big ogre outside gonna help you bury me?"_

 _Quinn chuckles, and it's sinister even to the caged parrot's ears. "First you're going to agree not to sell any stories about that kiss, or even tell anybody about it. Then you're going to agree to contact Blake, and you're going to tell him what really happened that night - that_ _ **you**_ _kissed and propositioned_ _ **me**_ _."_

 _"So you spend several months trying to get rid of me, and now you want me to talk to him again. What's in it for me?" Kaitlyn asks, sizing up everything from Quinn's fitted cape-style wool coat to her luxurious heels._

 _"Oh, I don't know - how about permission to continue this hellhole-life thing you've got going on here?"_

 _"Bingo!" Kaitlyn retorts, folding her arms. "You could put a hole in me right now, and no one would flinch. In fact," she chortles, "I think a couple people be pleased. I have nothing. Trailer park trash is it for me. So don't think I'm about to tell you what I'm about to tell you 'cause you got a gun and you're threatening to use it. I'm telling you 'cause the bitch deserves it!" She plucks a cigarette from behind her ear, grabs a lighter from behind the other, and lights up._

 _That first pull of chemicals into her lungs eases her eyes shut, and when she opens them it's like she's been reset. "Shocker - you were right. I_ _ **was**_ _only interested in Blake for money." She taps the cigarette ash off into a nearby ash tray and adds, "just not_ _ **your**_ _money."_

 _Quinn leans up off of the counter, her ears piqued._

 _"Shelby's money, however..." Kaitlyn reveals, looking the other woman in the eye; enjoying the power that she holds over her. "She promised to pay me five g's to get in with Blake and get solid dirt on you."_

 _"Why are you telling me this now?"_

 _"'Cause I got nothing out of it in the end, and I'm awful salty about it!" Kaitlyn snaps. "When Blake caught us kissing, I convinced him that you forced yourself on me, and he still froze me out. He wanted nothing to do with me, leaving me with no ins to collect more info on you." She puffs out wispy grey streams, shrouding herself. "So I went back and told Shelby it was over between me and Blake - that I had nothing tangible on you yet, and before I could tell her what I_ _ **did**_ _find out about you, you know what she did? She snapped her fingers and had me escorted off the premises of her salon, like a worthless criminal."_

 _"Aww," Quinn drawls, and it's dripping in false pity, "my heart truly weeps for you, Kaitlyn."_

 _"Well my heart weeps for you too, Quinn," Kaitlyn shoots right back, tossing her head back in brief laughter. "See, you're trapped in your own life. You have all this money, and fame - power! But the one thing you want you can't have," she says, taking her free hand and snatching her own crotch. "This."_

 _"You can make up all the warped fantasies you like -"_

 _"Warped fantasies?" Kaitlyn barks, chuckling. "It took a while, but once you started to kiss me back that night, you couldn't stop yourself. Pussy makes your world spin. How'd you think I knew to come onto you in the first place? I found your secret cell phone - the one you hide in your desk drawer. Those text messages? Sure love yourself a mouthful of whoever this Brooke chick is, don't you?" She tuts. "Soon as I saw those messages, I knew I either had to get you in bed and make a sex tape to take back to Shelby,_ _ **or**_ _catch you with your mistress and snap a few shots. Looking back, I should've stolen that damn cell phone and given it to Shelby. I'd be five grand better off. But no, I had to play it safe - put everything in your office back how I found it so you wouldn't know someone went through your things and suspect me."_

 _"You're either profoundly brave or profoundly stupid. Really? Telling me how you infiltrated my home and family with such unapologetic candor, when you know what I can do to you? You truly must not value your life. But how about the lives of your children?"_

 _That stops Kaitlyn in her tracks. Her cigarette halts just moments from her lips, muted terror flickering in her eyes._

 _Quinn unlatches her purse, pulls out a plastic bag containing six miniature polaroids, and tosses it at the other woman's feet._

 _Kaitlyn doesn't need to pick the bag up. Through its transparency, she sees the photo of her youngest son, and knows that five other photos rest beneath it._

 _"Jack, Kayla, Daniel, Cade, Jessica, and Dolan," Quinn lists, picking up the spoon that rests on the counter so that she can preen her hair in the reflection. "They're beautiful children. You know that. That's why you gave them up. Because you knew they deserved better than an addict for a mother. It'd be tragic if their lives were snuffed out senselessly. Don't you think?"_

 _"Look, I did you a favor in the end, Quinn!" Kaitlyn hisses._

 _"And how have you drawn that fascinating conclusion?"_

 _"I made sure that bitch, Shelby, got nothing out of me! You treated me like cancer when I was with Blake. I could've gone back and made sure that Shelby knows what I know about you, just to be a bitch! She might have even paid me for that info. But I didn't tell her. She has no idea about your penchant for pussy. If she did you'd be the glowing face of lesbianism in the press right now, because that woman wants to destroy you."_

 _"You really expect me to believe that that was you doing me a favor?" Quinn scoffs, because it's not worth an eye roll. "You only kept your mouth shut because Shelby made a fool out of you and froze you out once she felt you were useless to her. You were getting ready to tell her what you knew before she had you thrown out. So, I think it's safe to say that when you filled yourself with spiteful pride, that wasn't the same as you doing me a 'favor.'"_

 _"I..." Kaitlyn swallows, nodding like she's just made some sort of agreement with herself. "I did what I needed to, and I'm not gonna apologize for that."_

 _Quinn knows she should pull out her handgun and pump this piece of shit full of lead. No one would hear a thing; the silencer would make sure of that. But beneath the spiteful lack of remorse, there's desperation and pain woven into the fabric of Kaitlyn's being. Quinn understands it perhaps more than she wants to admit, because there was a time when she was Lucy Quinn Fabray - a product of a hateful, religious, stifling WASP household that drove her to some pretty desperate acts of her own._

 _Like Sam. He'd been the sweet dorky star quarterback at the time, and she'd been Head Cheerleader. They were destined to be together... by everybody's standards but her own. Still, it was what was expected of her, and she'd known that becoming his girlfriend would quiet the condemning look in her father's eye. The one that she would receive whenever he saw her hugging her then best friend, Callie._

 _One desperate act after another, Quinn became everything that she inherently wasn't. Spiteful, cold, manipulative, controlling, anti-intimacy, power-hungry. Though a liar, she had always been._

 _Because no Fabray woman was ever complete without a man at her side, Quinn allowed her mother, Judy, to bully her into marrying Sam shortly after graduation. The same was true of her decision to plan Blake. Her talent for sewing had been her only outlet, allowing her an avenue of authentic expression in a life that was otherwise a chore. Desperate to lose herself in her one escape, she created Lucy Q Couture and funded it with the money that Judy and Russell Fabray had given her and Sam as a wedding gift, which if Quinn was being honest, was the primary reason why she had allowed herself to be bullied into marriage in the first place. For the money and the promise of escaping Lima, Ohio._

 _As Lucy Q Couture grew, so did Quinn's independence, as well as her exposure to irresistibly gorgeous women. She'd desperately wanted to kiss a few of them, especially when they were throwing themselves at her under the guise of garment fittings - some charmed right out of their panties by Quinn's classic beauty and quiet mystery. But, still plagued with years of homophobic conditioning, she learned to freeze those temptations out by emphasizing her armor. Once her cheerleading uniform, her armor grew to be this untouchable elegance. Severe updos, neck pearls, a majestic aura, one of a kind high fashion apparel, and a quaint but powerful smile. She became a performer in her own body, the stage being life. And when her cold detachment grew insurmountable, Sam left to serve in the military._

 _And when he returned, he was someone else entirely..._

 _So Quinn gets it. She may not have taken on his surname (which had been an argument in and of itself) but she was once desperate enough to marry a man for approval and money - have his child and move to the suburbs to start a life that wasn't for her. Pretending to like some kid just to get dirt on his mother would be child's play to her, and she knows she'd do it in a heartbeat if desperate enough._

 _But she still wants to empty a round into Kaitlyn's chest, put her out of her misery, and watch the blood run. She can't though, because, "I've been recording this entire interaction. I'll snip it until I feel it's suitable for my son's ears. But he's going to hear the truth, and when he does I don't want him to put two and two together should they pull your bullet-riddled body out of some river thereafter. So I'm not going to kill you today. But," Quinn begins, slowly advancing on the other woman, "if I hear anything about any of this in the media, or if I ever see you again..." She takes Kaitlyn's cigarette and ousts it on the behind wall, letting it hiss. "I'll have you, your parrot, your kids, and your entire community massacred."_

Brooke gently closes in the door behind her. Now that it's just her and Quinn, alone together, she dusts the creases out of her fitted blazer and primps her hair. "You, um, wanted to see me?"

Sat at the far end of the sleek boardroom table, Quinn continues to thumb through her sketchbook designs. "Just a second," she murmurs.

As Brooke stands there, waiting for her turn to matter, she can't help but be charmed by the angular, thinly-framed, black glasses that sit on Quinn's nose. She loves when Quinn comes into work wearing them. They soften, endear, further mystify, _and_ sexualize her. All at once.

And now that Brooke has allowed herself to go _there_ , she acknowledges - not for the first time - that she's also charmed by the way that Quinn multi-tasks. The way that she moves between assignments with a cool-headed air of unmistakable leadership - phone to her ear as she converses with clients, selects fabrics, _and_ scans Lucy Q ad campaigns for anything that might offend the label's primary consumer demographic. Brooke is charmed; the way that Quinn gets that small crease in her brow when she sketches. The little things, like when Design Team Head, Ed Ferrera, poses an excellent idea and Quinn lights up. It's a sight to behold, watching Quinn run Lucy Q Couture. It's beautiful. Quinn is beautiful...

Brooke chuckles ruefully as she catches her thoughts, because she loves this woman, and now she doesn't even get those small scraps of her. The scraps that she eventually would've learned to settle for.

"You knew. You knew a long time ago that I was in love with you," she says, and there's something acutely accusatory about it. "You knew and the sex continued, so what changed?"

Quinn maintains her silence, eyes combing sketches. But the way that she sighs is an acknowledgement. The only acknowledgement that she's going to offer, and Brooke knows she has no other choice but to push harder: "I personally think there's someone else." She shrugs. "The woman from... the trailer park perhaps; Blake's girlfriend."

Quinn's indifference to Brooke's presence vanishes, and suddenly her assistant is the only thing in the world that she can see. "How do you know about that?"

"I sort of... followed you out there."

"Hmm," Quinn hums, composing her white-hot urge to lash out when she sees a gang of employees pass by through the door's glass panel.

"I-I only tracked you out there because I was worried about you," Brooke rushes to explain. "You'd been acting strange, and I knew you were lying to me when you told me you were blowing me off to meet with a -"

"You were snooping," Quinn interrupts. "And for you to think that I'd sleep with my son's girlfriend, yet still want to be with me speaks volumes."

"I love you."

"How can you love me when you don't know me?"

Brooke glares. "I _do_ know you!"

"Keep your voice down or you're out of here!"

"Quinn, just give me a chance!" Brooke whispers harshly as she strikes the table with her palm. "I'll love you no matter what you do, and I'll support you even when you do fucked up things. That's what love is!"

"No." Quinn shakes her head, thinking back on her parents' toxic marriage, where there were no boundaries whatsoever. "That is not what love is," she says. "You let me get away with treating you like a whore, like my father did my mother behind closed doors. You have no backbone, and I don't respect you. As a result, I can't take the idea of a relationship with you seriously. If I ever fall in love it's going to be with someone who can stand at my side. I don't need a babysitter, nor do I need a yes man. Now are you getting it?"

It's all that Brooke can do to maintain her composure, her ocean blue eyes prickling with unshed tears. She'd pushed for something other than quiet disregard, and she got it. Now there are parts of her that feel like she shouldn't have pushed at all.

Her vocal chords constrict under the strain of her emotion, but she holds it together long enough to spit, "if you want me to be an asshole to you, Quinn, that's - that's what you'll get!"

"What I want is for you to move on with your life. Take Jessica out. You spend enough time flirting with her."

"This will never be over, Quinn. You got that? Is that enough backbone for you?"

Quinn pushes the sketchbook aside, stands, and closes the distance between herself and her employee. "Get Donovan Jessop on the phone, and apologize for the sizing mishap that took place last week," she whispers into Brooke's soft brown hair, feeling the other woman's resolve melt away in their proximity. "And don't ever track me again. There are sides to me that you truly do not want to meet."

* * *

Having lived for seventeen years, Blake Fabray-Evans has come to learn that people see what they want to see.

He's noticed that store owners are watchful of those with darker skin, whilst those with fair skin rob them blind.

He's noticed that his dad sometimes compliments his mom's 'new' perfume, when she comes home smelling of another woman.

He's noticed that men who show up bearing thoughtful gifts are just walking admissions of guilt according to paranoid women.

And Blake's noticed that, even with him, people see what they want to see.

He is angry. From the moment he awakens until the moment that he goes to sleep, it's there, simmering in the background; scanning the environment for anything that might allow it to take the wheel and cause the ten car pile-up that it craves. Those that interact with Blake - teachers, classmates, friends, neighbors - often disregard his brooding intensity, choosing to buy his charming swagger simply because it's easier than prying.

That angers Blake too.

Indeed. People see what they want to see, and Blake Fabray-Evans has long since learned how to exploit that...

 _He's in tears, het up, and trembling, pacing the pavement outside of Shelby Corcoran's house like he could decapitate a lion with his fists._

 _"Blake?"_

 _When he hears the tentative utterance, he spins towards it to see Shelby standing on her doorstep. "I hate her!" he grits out, already knowing where the older woman's mind will take her. Banking on it. "She - she's an evil witch!"_

 _Shelby's unsure of what she's walking into, and that is evidenced by her wary gait towards the young man. But her mind's already at work, connecting dots that will shape the picture she most wants to see. "Who are you talking about? Your mother?"_

 _And bingo!_

 _Blake balls his fists. "I don't know what to – I'm sick to death of living in her shadow! She -"_

 _"Shh," Shelby's suddenly all too happy to soothe, gently taking the teen's shoulders and steering him up the garden path towards her house. "Not out here. Come on, I'll put some coffee on, and you can vent to me about it inside."_

 _"I don't know..."_

 _"I won't tell your mother that you came to me. I promise. Just..." Shelby heaves a deep sigh whilst rubbing the boy's shoulder. "Come on inside and calm down. I might even be able to help?"_

 _"O-Ok," Blake hiccups, swiping at his blotchy tear-ridden face._

 _Moments before Shelby closes her front door on the quiet street, she peers over at the Fabray house and smirks a quiet deviousness, completely unaware of the fact that as Blake sinks into her sofa, he's smirking too..._

 _"Got anything stronger?" he asks as Shelby places a steaming cup of coffee on the table before him._

 _"Doesn't every worthwhile Magenta Lane resident? But you're underage. And I'd prefer to keep within the law whilst I provide you with a shoulder to cry on."_

 _A conversational lull settles between them, wherein Blake can feel Shelby's thirst for him to reveal any snippet of information that she might use to ruin his mother. She's standing over him wearing a mask of concern, which seems to have to reignite itself whenever he catches her eye, but her true agenda is so thick it's like the third person in the room._

 _He grabs his coffee and sips, flinching a hiss as the heat bites his tongue. "Damn it!"_

 _"Careful, it's freshly brewed," Shelby warns too late, frowning. "My God. You really are all inside out, aren't you?" She peers at the young man. Though the tears have dried, his flustered nostrils still quiver, and his usually slicked back hair is chaotic. Her fingers gravitate to the soft tufts that obstruct his vision, gently combing them back off of his face. "It's ok, Blake. You're ok. Just relax."_

 _"So I burned my tongue. Big deal. Nothing could hurt more than what my mom did," he growls._

 _Behind the concerned veneer, Shelby's pulse quickens and her eyes gleam. "Oh?" she gently urges, sitting down beside the boy. "What did she do?"_

 _Blake sighs, grabbing his forehead. "I just - I'm sorry, can I use the bathroom first?"_

 _"... Sure," Shelby chirps, blinking herself out of her disappointment. She grants the young man her well-practiced smile. "Once you've reached the second floor, it's the second room on the right."_

 _"Thanks." Blake stands, and as he walks away from the older woman, he relishes the thought that she's going to pay for the things he heard Kaitlyn say on that recording._

 _His athletic jog makes quick work of the spiraling staircase, just as his knowledge of the area's classic home layout makes quick work of locating the master bedroom. Trailing light steps along the hallway, he opens the bathroom door and pulls it back in with enough force to make sure that Shelby hears, before tip-toeing into her room._

 _Just as he suspected it would be, the room is in immaculate order. Not a bra or sock out of place. Not a wrinkle in the duvet. Shelby Corcoran's bedroom is like a showroom, and as Blake pulls two wireless fine-sized cameras from his back pocket, attaches one to the wall cabinet, facing the bed, and the other to the wall cabinet opposite, he can't think of a more fitting choice of comparison, because everybody's going to be in for a show once he's finished._

"I don't want to bother you this early in the morning, but could I trouble you for an autograph?"

Rachel glances up from the letters that she's just collected from the mailbox, her sight settling upon her new neighbor, Blake Fabray-Evans. "You're asking me for an autograph? I feel as though I should request yours; we share near equal coverage on those dreadful gossip blogs."

As Blake draws closer he releases a charming chuckle, sliding his hands into his pockets with a shrug. "And to get it, all I had to do was be born," he retorts with a brief bark of laughter. But the underlying resentment is clear.

"... Um, what would you like me to autograph for you?"

"Oh - here!" Blake says, pulling a _Rachel Berry: Greatest Hits_ album from his man-bag and handing it to her.

She smiles as she accepts the CD. It's warm, nostalgic, and perhaps her first genuine smile since arriving on the street. "I never would have pegged you as a fan of mine," she murmurs, taking Blake's marker and scribbling her signature on the case.

"Why not? Your voice is exceptionally beautiful, and so are you. You were bound to pull in the teenage male demographic. I also have a bunch of friends who are into your music. My friend, Dane - he loves it when you hit the high notes. Something about amazing breath control, and how that skill could inform other... skills. But from that statement, we both know he's a creep," Blake says, flexing a flirtatious smirk. "I'm clearly the much better choice."

Rachel's smile takes on an awkward lilt. She hands the CD back to him, taking great care to avoid skin on skin contact. "Well - uh... Thank you. But..."

Just then Monica White rolls by in her silver Lexus. The driver window descends, and she sends a glare that would bend steel Rachel's way, before zooming off into the distance.

"Wow," Blake comments.

"Tell me about it," Rachel echoes, her brow pinched. "That woman has been nothing but frosty ever since I arrived, and at Sugar's game night she was downright rude," she huffs as she watches the shrinking Lexus. "Perhaps I'm her husband's get-out-of-jail celebrity crush, and that's why she detests me."

It's a joke, an attempt to make light. Blake knows that, but he doesn't laugh, and soon enough Rachel's expression follows suit.

She draws her silk robe in closer around her body and asks, "what?"

"I don't know if I should be the one to tell you this -"

"Spill it," Rachel urges, unwilling to let the teenager off the hook.

"Well, Shelby had an affair with Monica's husband. You're probably just guilty by association."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Blake says, watching the attractive starlet soften as she digests the new information. "Somebody who must've known about it planted a camera in Shelby's house, and then they posted the video footage of her and Rick going at it through Monica's door. There was a street brawl and everything. Monica threatened Shelby's life."

"I'm sorry but did you say a-a camera, planted in there? The house where I lay my head to rest at night and take showers?" Rachel seeks to clarify, thumbing her earlobe uneasily.

"Yes."

"Well is it still there?" she exclaims, like she'd be a lot happier if only Blake would just keep up.

"No, of course not," he chuckles, amused by Rachel's theatrical quirk which, up until now, he'd only experienced via random glimpses of her interviews. "When news of the affair hit the street, Shelby denied it, certain that there was no proof. That was when Monica gave copies of the DVD to neighbors, citing that everybody needed to watch their husband around Shelby, which understandably made her public enemy number one. One of the DVD's must have fallen into her hands though, because she had a guy come and remove the camera the very next day. No one knows who planted it there. But _Secure Homes_ is more than happy with the recent increase in home security system purchases."

Rachel relaxes a little. "Well thank Barbra for that! Shelby mentioned none of this when she asked me to house sit," she says, and it's a reminder of the fact that her mother's always going to be a closed book when it comes to her. A closed book whose love she must learn to stop coveting. "It's strange," she mutters through a forlorn smile. "The things you miss when you don't keep up regular communication with old friends, huh?"

Blake shrugs. "Welcome to Magenta Lane," he drawls with underwhelming pizzazz.

Rachel waves his gentle ribbing off, opting to take their conversation back to where it had been headed prior to Mrs White's drive-by glare. "By the way, allow me to clarify that I'm thirty-six; more or less the same age as your mother. So if you could hold back on the flirtatious admiration in future, that would be lovely. Though general admiration is more than welcome - if not encouraged."

Blake smirks. "Well it was worth a shot. You're stunning. I'm stunning. It only makes sense that together, we'd both be..." he trails off with a charismatic grin, letting the silence fill in the obvious blank.

"I'm perfectly serious. Those dimples may work on your female peers. But they're wasted on me."

"Do your dimples work on female co-stars?"

Rachel scoffs in half-hearted offense, swinging at the cheeky young man with the hanging material of her robe sash. "Living in the age of information is a curse. Go on, skedaddle."

"I'm going. I'm going," Blake laughs. "Thanks for the autograph. My friends are going to be sick with envy."

"Something tells me you wouldn't have it any other way. But you're welcome nevertheless."

As both Rachel and Blake part ways, Quinn watches studiously from her kitchen window, across the street.

She's been awake since five am, attempting to justify her desire to interact with Rachel. Quinn isn't any better off, now, in her quest to talk herself out of that desire than she was then. In fact, there's a freshly baked apricot pie in the oven with Rachel's name on it. But now that she's seen her troubled son chatting with the starlet about God knows what, Quinn feels she no longer needs to rely on the pie, because now she has legitimate grounds upon which to approach the star. She just hopes that Blake, in his never-ending quest to make her life difficult, wasn't foolish enough to say anything that she's going to have to clean up.

Two hours go by before Quinn's stood on Shelby's doorstep, awaiting an answer to her polite knock.

It requires three more for Rachel to answer the door; stood there in nothing but a towel as her dark tresses drip into the welcome mat. "Quinn," she states.

"Rachel," Quinn counters, her syrup-honey hazel eyes mapping the stretches of soft, damp, tan skin on display. "Here," she says before she forgets, offering Rachel the muffin basket. "My famous apricot pie, to welcome you to the street."

Rachel eyes the basket momentarily, and then takes it by the handle. "Thanks. Though I must confess my surprise, as I detected a smidgen of tension the last time we ran into each other. I trust that as much as this is a welcoming gesture, your famous pie is also an apology."

It's not a question, nor is it unsure of itself. It's a firm statement that Rachel expects Quinn to go along with, because that's what she feels she's owed. An apology for the needless sniping that took place at Sugar's game night.

Quinn can't shake fast enough how charmed she is by Rachel's no-nonsense demeanor. But no one would ever know that, and that is by design.

"Of course. May I come in? I wanted to speak to you."

"Where we're stood is as good a place to speak as any, is it not?"

Quinn gaze falls towards the ground as a demure smirk captures her bowstring lips, and when Rachel's unable to come up with a plausible explanation for Quinn's subtle amusement, she glances down at her own body, just to be sure that her towel is still intact, which of course only causes Quinn's smirk to flourish.

"What's so amusing?"

 _You're inconceivably beautiful, and it's taking all my restraint not to voice as much._

"Nothing Rachel. I just think we should talk inside. That way if your towel suddenly decides to unravel itself and fly away, the neighbors won't see a thing," Quinn reasons, so deadpan that most would miss the jesting sarcasm.

Rachel doesn't though. She catches it. But still her fist tightens around the area where her towel's tucked. "Actually... you have a point," she concedes with comedic ease, stepping aside to allow Quinn entry.

They're sat at the kitchen counter, both enjoying a slice of apricot pie before long. Rachel's on her second slice, and since that very first taste she hasn't stopped moaning her pleasure.

"You must, must, must give me this recipe!" she gushes, forking another bite in past her lips as she closes her eyes and groans.

Quinn respectfully averts her gaze, feeling like the near pained look on Rachel's face should be private. She clears her throat. "It's been in the Fabray family for generations. I'm not just going to hand it over."

Rachel's eyes jolt open, an exaggerated gasp tumbling from her lips. "What do you mean you're not just going to hand it over? Quinn Fabray, I demand this recipe!"

"All that talk of you being a diva is a lie then," Quinn muses, face completely stoic, save the devilish sarcastic glint in her eye.

Rachel brandishes her fork. "Need I remind you that I am currently armed with cutlery, and that I've had sugar? I will harm you if I need to."

Quinn gives the starlet a subtle smile but lifts a challenging brow. "Harm me and you certainly won't be getting the recipe. Not that I was ever going to give it to you to begin with."

"I'll remember this," Rachel threatens non-committally, to which Quinn chuckles. "So what did you want to speak to me about?"

And suddenly the air thickens.

Quinn clasps her hands atop the counter. "I saw you talking to Blake this morning, and I just wanted to ask you what he wanted."

Rachel frowns, feeling like there's some importance she's missing. But as long as she's eating Quinn's apricot pie, aliens could land and she'd be okay with missing it. "Nothing much. He requested an autograph and we chit-chatted. He's a pleasant, well-spoken, young man. Why do you ask?"

"Because it seemed like there were moments when he had stars in his eyes," comes Quinn's premeditated response. "And I just wanted to make sure that he wasn't bothering you in any way," she fabricates seamlessly, her real concerns soothed for now.

"Well, he did sort of ask if my dimples work to help me seduce my female co-stars."

"Excuse me?" Quinn asks, so abruptly rattled that she subconsciously touches her pearls, like she needs to be sure they're still there, clasped around her neck. The mannerism doesn't convey her inner panic though. It's quaint and royal, and everything that one might expect from a woman like her. Yet her heart gallops beneath her maroon silk blouse as she stalks the finer details of Rachel's expression, and attempts to work out whether or not she's about to segue to the part where Blake told her he has a mother who paints the world a picture of perfection, all whilst cheating on his dad with women.

"It was nothing untoward," Rachel assures her, quite happily popping another piece of pie in her mouth.

Quinn wills herself to regroup; takes her fingers away from her pearls to rest them in her lap. "Still," she breathes out, tagging on an airy chuckle, "I'll have to talk to him about prying like that. Especially when it concerns your alternative lifestyle."

" _Quinn_ ," Rachel stresses, chuckling, "I can assure you; it was nothing serious. It was tongue in cheek."

"Tongue in cheek one day. Invasive little cretin the next," Quinn says primly. "In future please don't entertain whatever lewd fantasies he might have regarding your Sapphic lifestyle. I'm not comfortable with it."

"Quinn, I hardly encouraged -"

And that's when it occurs to Rachel - what might actually be going on here. She lays her fork down and pushes her pie aside. Her dark eyes lock into Quinn's, taking on a probing cerebral glint that is seldom asked of her on-screen counterparts. "Quinn, if your true concern is that your interest in women was discussed, you have nothing to worry about."

Quinn grows cold. "What?"

"Well isn't that the real reason why you're here?" Rachel asks. "To ensure that I didn't say anything to your son about _your_ alternative lifestyle?"

 _Regrettably, he already knows. But how the hell do you?_

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Quinn denies with unyielding stern, "but I'm advising you to tread very carefully with your logically bankrupt accusations."

Rachel scoffs, though it's not in any way unkind. "Oh come on, Quinn. How many times have you and I made eye contact directly after you've checked out the likes of Jasmine LaCost or Laurel Callen backstage? I thought you knew that I knew, and were concerned that I might've let it slip to your son, which if that is the case you could have just come right out - pardon the pun - and asked me."

Quinn narrows a disdainful glare at the perceptive little starlet.

She can't bring herself to believe that she's been so careless. But the truth is that she has. She is. She was careless when she kissed Blake's live-in nanny all those years ago, only discover that he'd been watching through a crack in the door. She was careless years on when Sam found out about it and almost left, forcing her to admit that she'd been having those types of urges for a while - that she just didn't know how to tell him, and that it might save their marriage if they explored other women together. She was careless when she checked out the likes of Jasmine Lacost and Laurel Callen. And now she's sat at Shelby's kitchen counter with her rival's half-naked daughter, Rachel, who she's been finding it difficult not to think about since Sugar's game night. It's foolish and risky, and there's likely nothing good to be gained from what she wants to happen between them actually happening.

This isn't the sort of conduct that guards a secret. Neither is the salacious gaze that she sometimes feels it's safe to let wander.

But that's the problem. The genie never stays in the bottle when the genie is who you are...

"Quinn, I apologize for how that came out. I can be blunt, but my intention was not to maliciously call you out or put you on the spot," Rachel defends herself, because the way that she's being looked at makes her feel like she needs to. "Quite the contrary; I thought you knew that I knew, and I was attempting to put you at ease. Seventy percent of Hollywood is made up of closeted stars. I keep my mouth shut and I don't judge. So you really have nothing to worry about, and even less reason to subject me to that look. Monica White already has that covered."

Shaken by the finite casualness of Rachel's knowing, Quinn grabs her empty muffin basket from the counter and stands.

But Rachel stands too, quickly wiping off the crumbs that have attached themselves to her hand so that she can grab Quinn's wrist.

"Don't touch me," Quinn murmurs, and it sounds like an icy threat as well as a merciful plea.

Rachel drops the pale wrist and thumbs a few strands of damp hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry."

Choosing not to acknowledge the starlet's remorse, Quinn takes a measured step towards her, so that they're eye to eye. She schools her features to perform a stoicism so still that, for Rachel, it's like gazing into an eerie painting. "I'm not interested in women," Quinn tells her coolly. "You have it all wrong, and I'd like an apology."

Rachel knows she isn't wrong about this. About Quinn. She's seen Quinn's eyes devour many a female bosom, many a female midriff, and many a female rump. But she can feel something within Quinn begging her to acquiesce. So she takes a step back and smiles her show smile, everything anew. "Well, what an embarrassing assumption. My sincerest apologies. Though," she says, taking on a superficial wistfulness, "it's sort of disappointing that I was wrong. At least from an ego standpoint. I always sort of liked imagining that, with the right approach, I could garner your interest. There's a mystery to you that intrigues."

Quinn blinks once, her jaw pulsing with tension. "Apology accepted," is all she offers, before she pivots primly on her heels and heads for the front door.

The moment she arrives home she pours herself a glass of scotch, tosses it to the back of her throat, and pours another, the small tremor to her hands subsiding to the alcohol's influence. She presses both palms to the marble work surface, and just breathes.

"She's not going to tell anybody," she reasons with herself. "Relax."

"Where've you been?"

Quinn whips around with that of a mouse trap's snap. "Sam." She resets her pearls center-sternum, erasing the slump from her posture. "I was just at Shelby's, delivering Rachel's pie."

Sam slowly ambles into the kitchen, watching his wife closely until he has to turns his back to open the refrigerator. "Isn't she bisexual?" he quizzes.

"Um..." Quinn eyelids flutter on a blink. "What does that have to do with anything?"

" _Maybe_ she'd wanna do something with us."

"Don't be absurd. After what we did with Brooke, those... desires left my system."

Without ever having taken any food, Sam slams the refrigerator door and turns to face his wife. "What if they haven't left mine?"

Quinn turns back towards the counter, leaning on it for support. She grabs her glass of scotch and throws it to the back of her throat, because it feels like she's going to need it. "What are you talking about?" she growls.

"Well. I did it for you. You're not the only one in this marriage. If I did it for you, you can do it for me, and I want to do _it_ with Rachel," Sam says, his voice measured and somewhat calculated.

"What's this really about?" Quinn asks, knowing this version of her husband well enough now to know that things aren't always what they seem.

"I think you know."

"We're _not_ having a threesome with Rachel! Or anyone else!"

"Why not?" Sam laughs humorlessly. "Oh that's right. It'll only work for you if I'm not there. My mistake." He takes evenly-paced steps towards his wife, caging her in against the counter with his front.

"Sam -"

"I saw the look on your face when you were baking that pie," he tells her ear, fraught with jealousy. "Either something's already going on between you and the pop star, or you want it to."

"Sam, move!" Quinn grunts, struggling for freedom.

"You don't look at me like you looked at that pie. You don't handle me with the care that you put into that pie!" Sam shouts, bringing down his palm hard on the counter to where Quinn flinches still. "The moment I asked you who the pie was for, and you said her name, I knew. Those _desires_ still live."

"You're being ridiculous. This is why I didn't want to tell you about those urges to begin with. I knew it would cast doubt in your mind, and that at the slightest occurrence you'd question everything."

"Then make the doubt go away," Sam challenges, sliding a hand down and around her thigh to unzip her slacks.

A single tear, borne of anger, fear, and loss, cascades down Quinn's cheek.

She misses her best friend - her husband of old. The boy who'd stumble all over himself trying to get to the store to buy tampons when she was all out. The boy with the girlish blonde locks who, no, she wasn't attracted to, but loved for the kind, accommodating, dorky doormat that he was.

But _this_ man. This man who returned from Iraq an aggressive, calculated, manipulative monster, married in with unexpected moments of kindness and affection in-between. This man who shaved off those girlish blonde locks in favor of a buzz cut fade.

This man is... what she deserves, and as Quinn struggles to adjust around his hard seven inches, she can't help but wonder if this is God's way of punishing her for the scroll of sins that she knowingly commits every day.

* * *

 **If you'd like to tell me what you thought, leave a review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**This is a little more Rachel-centric, since I haven't really given much backstory to her yet. So there is a glimpse into it here. Again, I just want to thnk everybody who follows, reviews, and favorites. I am having worlds of fun writing and coming up with plotlines for this story, and being able to share it with other Faberry shippers is the cherry on top. Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

It's eleven pm, and Rachel's found herself curled up in front of the TV with a glass of red and another book that she knows she's never going to read. She flicks through a number of channels, her tongue loose as she criticizes several reality TV stars, a couple of which she was unfortunate enough to recently meet.

"Oh be quiet," she grumbles at _Gay Ray_ , the star of _Upper East Side Twinks._ "Bisexuality is not just another word for whore."

She gladly turns the channel, opting out of the affluent gay life of Ray Oakerson, and into the fictional life of Missy Alfonse, her current on-screen role.

Rachel's face warms with a smile as she recalls what fun it was to shoot the scene that she's watching - the scene where Jase confronts Missy about her recent emotional distance, once and for all. She watches Missy lie to the man that she no longer loves but doesn't want to hurt, and Rachel's smile slips away, because two months ago her life began to imitate her art.

Only, it wasn't Joshua who'd been in danger of getting hurt. It was her.

She tries to tell herself that that's all over now though - that her ex, Joshua, isn't stupid enough to do anything to physically harm her. And it's almost easy to believe it as she glances around the vast lounge that isn't hers, situated in a city that isn't home. But it's a cheap illusion, and once stripped away it's only a matter of time before she'll have to deal with the reality.

 _He frees the packet of birth control pills from his pocket, disdainfully tossing them at the windshield, before they clatter to the car's interior floor. "There must be a freaking year's worth there, and the prescription date's recent. I thought we agreed that we were going to try for a baby soon."_

 _It's a statement. Not a question. And it causes Rachel to shift uncomfortably as she carefully rotates the steering wheel. "You agreed. I said that I'd - that I'd think about kids."_

 _"You aren't getting any younger, Rachel," Joshua sneers._

 _When Rachel refuses to react, rather waving out of her window at an industry friend, Joshua very calmly says, "find a spot to pull over."_

 _"I'm not pulling over."_

 _"Pull over now."_

 _"No," Rachel refuses, smiling bright as she waves at yet another passing industry acquaintance._

 _"I really don't want to grab the wheel. But you're giving me no other choice here."_

 _"Just like I gave you no choice but to poke holes in those condoms?" Rachel lashes back. "And why did you do that? Because I wouldn't agree to try for a baby there and then," she answers for him. "So yes, I'm taking birth control because you abused my trust!"_

 _"We haven't been sleeping together all that much, so whose jizz are you trying to keep from knocking you up?"_

 _"Yours! We had sex a week and a half ago!" Rachel argues, cringing at just how much she'd enjoyed it, because she no longer loves him. She loves parts of Joshua. One part specifically. But that's it, and she feels like she should be demanding more of herself than that. "I discovered that you'd been poking holes in our condoms, so I took the necessary precautions to ensure that I don't end up tied to you for the rest of my life!"_

 _"I'll always be in your life, you stuck up whore. If only to make it a misery."_

 _And that's Rachel's real fear. Even more so than staying in this toxic relationship, she's afraid that things will only escalate if she leaves._

 _"Pull over," Joshua reiterates._

 _"No."_

 _Broad hands snatch the steering wheel, hurling the car's previously steady cruise into a chaotic zig-zag that almost ends in a collision with a blue Nissan, which swerves and paps its horn indignantly._

 _"What are you doing?" Rachel shrieks, heart doubling up on beats. She wrestles with hands much stronger than hers for control of the wheel, losing every little exchange, until she finally submits, "alright! I'll pull over!"_

 _Joshua's hands retreat. He harshly swats the struggle-induced creases out of his shirt. "Life would be much easier for you if you just did what I tell you to the first time."_

 _Rachel notices a suitable spot, pulls into it, and settles the engine. "Now you can stop behaving like a lunatic!" she yells, fingers still trembling._

 _"If you think that that was me behaving like a lunatic, you haven't seen anything yet."_

And he'd been right.

When Rachel finally left Joshua, things escalated. They're still escalating, and as she watches Missy assuage Jase's fears with one lie after another, Rachel knows it'll end well for her character.

But she can't guarantee the same for herself.

* * *

Everybody's smiling in suburbia.

Esther Kessler smiles at that one supermarket employee who huffs whenever he's asked to point customers in the direction of their favorite foods.

Jordan Duran smiles at fellow country club members as they dwarf his accomplishments in favor of building up their own.

Fraser Heights smiles across the street at Sugar Motta, even though he dislikes her.

Yes. Everybody's smiling in suburbia... Except for when they're behind closed doors.

"Smile," Sam taunts as he spreads butter on his toast. "You smiled for the UPS man."

"That's because I want to have sex with him. Just like me smiling whilst baking a pie somehow means that I want to sleep with Rachel," Quinn barbs, sipping her coffee.

"I don't believe you want more sex for a second. There's no way you could manage it - not after what we did yesterday."

"Not after what _you_ did," Quinn corrects him with a severe glare.

Sam raises his coffee mug up, grinning. "How about a smile?"

"How about you choke to death on your toast," Quinn retorts, finally giving her husband a smile, however spiteful it may be.

"This is decidedly the most interesting table talk I think I've ever heard this early in the morning," Blake announces, gliding into the room with a bowl in hand.

Quinn sighs.

"Hey bud, you wanna catch that game of golf down at the country club later? Invite Darius and them?" Sam asks.

Blake shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. "I have to study," he says, muffled.

"In this household we swallow before we talk," Quinn admonishes with a disgusted click of the tongue.

Wriggling his brows something vulgar, the teenager glances between his parents as his says, "I'll bet."

Quinn rolls her eyes and leaves the table to put her dishes in the sink. "I don't know why I stick around," she grumbles haughtily.

"Come on now. Don't say stuff like that," Sam scolds his son, to which Blake shrugs and pulls out his cell phone.

As his mother bustles out of the house to further innovate the fashion industry, and his father finishes his breakfast, Blake spoons more cereal into his mouth. He opens up his favorite new smartphone app. The one that allows users to feed live footage from recording cameras directly to their phone's screen.

He actually hadn't expected that Rachel would take Shelby's master bedroom, assuming that she'd rather take the guest room.

But as he watches live footage feeding in from the remaining camera in Shelby's house, and sees Rachel puttering around half naked, he formulates the perfect plan to hurt not only his mother's reputation, but her freedom too...

"Are you listening to me?"

Blake blinks, frowning up at his dad. "What?"

"Don't make me take your phone!"

Despite the threat Blake smiles, simply because once he's done executing his plan, his mother will never smile a real smile again. Behind closed doors or otherwise.

* * *

There always comes that one day of the year when people acknowledge how many years they've lived. There are those that celebrate the day, eager in their surge towards legal drinking, driver license eligibility, and college graduation.

Then there are those who have already experienced all of those things, plus more. Those, who when that day rolls around, are reminded of their mortality, and would rather treat it like it's just another day.

Over the last seven years, Rachel's found herself leaning towards the latter...

"Daddy stop," she laughingly whines at her laptop screen. "I'm pretty sure Skype has a mute feature. Don't make me use it."

The awful rendition of Happy Birthday draws to a sudden stop, and in its place a hearty chuckle emanates from the fine speaker holes that line the laptop's keyboard. "This is tradition, sweetheart," Hiram insists, something deeply sentimental in his eye. "We always sing Happy Birthday to you."

Rachel nods. "And I always tell you guys you need emergency vocal lessons."

"You're simply awful," Hiram chortles, moments before he's joined on-screen by his husband, who perches himself on Hiram's lap and wraps an affectionate arm around his shoulders.

"Did you get the flowers and the chocolates, honey?" Leroy asks, brows raised in that hopeful yet slightly concerned parental way.

Singing or no singing, Rachel smiles unfathomable warmth at the two men who've loved, cared for, and raised her, and suddenly Shelby's spacious house feels less like an upscale art exhibition and more like a home. "Yes, dad, I received them in excellent condition - and thanks for sending along my first ever Tony Award. I hadn't realized how strange I would feel not having it around. I couldn't ask for better parents."

"But we could ask for a better daughter. One who allows us to spoil her on her birthday," Hiram retorts, to which he receives a gentle nudge from Leroy.

"We're not allowed to joke like that; it's her birthday," he scolds.

"I think I'll take those jokes over the singing," Rachel settles it, with a little sardonic jest of her own.

Leroy rolls his eyes. "What have you done to celebrate?"

"Well, I've gotten endless texts from friends. So that was nice. Cindy even texted me racy pictures from the calendar project she's putting together for another client." Rachel pauses, peering up at the ceiling as if it will yield the things that she's forgetting. "Oh! - and I took myself for a pedicure." She watches her fathers look to each other cynically. "What?" she asks. "I prefer not to make a fuss."

"Getting older's scary, honey; we know that. You probably think it's all denture cream, menopause, and osteoporosis-friendly sex -"

"And a large part of it probably is," Hiram jots in.

Rachel giggles. The insanity of these two men.

" _But_ you're only thirty-seven, honey. Celebrate your life, because you're in good health, you live a starred lifestyle, and the world is truly grateful to have you."

"It's true. I checked your Twitter mentions. Did you know that some of your fans have taken the day off to celebrate your birthday?" Hiram points out, awed.

"Yes, I'm aware. Unfortunately they're the same types who think it's okay to corner me as I'm leaving restaurants with male friends, citing that I'm 'cheating' on the female co-stars they feel I should truly be with."

Hiram's awed look dwindles to nothing. "Well aren't you just determined not to be upbeat today."

Leroy frowns. "Did..." He falters, thinking better of it, before deciding to ask anyway: "Did you hear from Shelby?"

Anybody else might miss the way that Rachel's eyes dim. The way that she glances down before glancing back up; righting the pain in her expression with a dull smile.

"Aww, honey," Hiram sympathizes.

She shrugs. "I should imagine that she has other things to worry about. Wishing me happy birthday would be asking too much. And it's not like she's ever wished me a happy birthday before." She shrugs once more. "It's nothing; I'm used to it."

"No it's not nothing! This is why I didn't want you going out there, Rachel. Shelby is always going to disappoint you, and it both infuriates me and breaks my heart!" Leroy rants, all sharp hand gestures and stern frowns. "I mean, when she had nobody else you were the one to step up and agree to house sit, as well as nurse her through her first month after the operation."

"She's my mom," Rachel states, like that negates everything.

And it does, which only makes the situation direr.

Both Hiram and Leroy sigh.

"I'm _fine_!" Rachel assures them, giving her laptop webcam the best smile she can muster. "I didn't expect her to acknowledge my birthday. It's quite alright. And I have you two. The best parents in the world."

After the Skype session with her parents concludes, Rachel doesn't expect to have to hear, 'happy birthday!' accompanied by its taxing cheer, for the remainder of the day.

But the residents of Magenta Lane have other ideas.

"Britt spent all day perfecting the icing. So I'm tellin' you now, clutzmania; if you drop that cake, I'ma drop you," Santana warns.

"Oh, go to hell!" Joslin Duke snaps.

"Oh really? 'Cause I thought it was you who dropped the Cream Cheese Salmon Latkes on our first run over here. Was that you or was that me? 'Cause I'm confused."

Brittany soon catches up to the group of women, balancing a tray of treats on one hand and savory snacks on the other. Her skin is flushed coral from her day spent in the kitchen, but it makes her smile seem all the more radiant. "Look at what we all accomplished, guys. You think Rachel will be pleased that we did this?" she asks, her rich blue eyes sparkling with childlike delight.

"She better be," Santana says. "She's lucky I allowed ya'll to even do all this after she wiped me out in that poker game the other night."

At the sound of the latina's voice, Joslin huffs, keeping her head straight.

Brittany's perky shoulders drop as she looks to her wife. "San, what did you say?" she whines, knowing the look of a person who's just been chewed out by Santana Lopez. And Joslin is the very picture of it.

"I just kindly reminded everyone that it'd be wise not to drop anymore of the food you spent all day cooking. That's all."

"What if Rachel's asleep?" Jenny suddenly suggests, looking around at the fancy assortment of trays, wine, and small gifts each woman is carrying. She adjusts her grip on her own tray. "Or what if she just... doesn't want a party?"

"Oh my God! You're right!" Sugar exclaims, wide-eyed and panicked. "Why didn't you point that out _before_ we went to all of this trouble?"

Kitty side-eyes the worried woman. "I think _somebody_ needs to start taking their Xanax again."

It's rare that Santana ever sees Kitty's side on anything, but she snickers at that remark.

Kitty clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. "For God's sake. Rachel's an actress and a singer, whose credo is something along the lines of, _'I need applause to live_.' She's never going to pass up an opportunity to be the center of attention. Now whose going to ring the doorbell? I don't have all day."

Brittany happily steps up, nearing Shelby's front door. But her wife shakes her head. "It's okay, baby; your hands are full. I'll get it."

"Damn! Preacher's daughter or not, maybe I need to start dating women," Mercedes Jones gleans.

Rachel's pumping a set of small pink dumbbells when the bell rings.

Releasing a sharp breath, she pumps them one more time and places them on the coffee table, dragging the back of her hand across her damp forehead as she opens the door.

"Happy birthday!" the women stood on Shelby's doorstep chorus. All except for Santana, who gives the starlet a look that's almost remorseful - but definitely more indifferent - as it says, 'this wasn't my idea.'

Rachel glances from woman to woman, her gaze roaming over expectant smiles, skillfully wrapped gifts with frilly bows, and the copious amounts of alcohol and food. She clears her throat, words abandoning her as she rests a palm to her sternum, and smiles a smile that looks like she's trying to swallow a leathery piece of steak without choking on it.

"Say something then," Sugar implores, grinning with such cheer that Rachel feels slightly awful.

"H-How - excuse me." She clears her throat again. "Exactly how did you guys know it was my birthday?"

"Uh, Wikipedia," Brittany answers, sort of duhing the starlet with her tone, though it isn't malicious.

Beside the tall blonde dance teacher, Kitty smirks, looking Rachel straight in the eye. "You'd be surprised at how much info a quick Google search yields." She winks.

Rachel's sort of grateful for Kitty's thinly veiled bitchiness, because it means she no longer has to keep up her chore of a smile, which she drops immediately. "Google; of course. Really, ladies, this is a lovely gesture and I'm infinitely warmed by your thoughtfulness. But I don't ever really make a fuss of my birthday, and I certainly wasn't planning on throwing a party." She gestures to her sporty outfit - a black tank top, spandex calf-length shorts, and a pair of sneakers. "I'm not dressed appropriately or anything."

When Santana sees the look of growing disappointment that is seeping into her wife's eyes, she decides that this is going to end very differently to how Rachel wants it to. She turns to the starlet. "We'll give you an hour to slip into something more flattering, and then it's party time."

"Santana -"

The latina throws up a finger, halting the diatribe of excuses that Rachel was likely about to hurl at her. "Look, we have enough booze to take down Gabourey Sidibe. Drink enough of it, and you'll be able to pretend you're anywhere else but partying in a house full of strangers. Deal?"

Rachel chuckles in spite of herself, as do a few of the women.

She's supposed to be cutting back on alcohol, since she feels like all she's done since arriving in Premont Falls is drink. But it seems like these women are going to force her to celebrate her birthday, and if that doesn't call for an evening of fuzzy recollection, she doesn't know what does.

Though still a little reluctant, Rachel nods her agreement to Santana's deal, having no idea just how fuzzy the evening's about to get...

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 **Little Quinn in this one, but she most definitely will be in the next one, sharing scenes with Rachel :) Tell me what you thought.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I had to split this up between two chapters, so the next chapter will continue straight on from where this leaves off. Thanks for the interest in this story everyone. I love that you guys are loving the ride as much as I am :) And to the reviewer who mentioned wanting to get acquainted with Sam's seven inches? Hilarious. I laughed like an absolute loon! As far as Blake's understanding of the dynamics of his family, he knows Sam is not perfect. But he harbors more resentment towards Quinn, for reasons that should be revealed a little later on :)**

 **KurtHummelIsGarbage, Blake is ruthless. He learned from the best. Poor Rachel indeed :)**

* * *

It is said that human beings are wired to spot difference. Nothing truer can be said of those that live on Magenta Lane, and it is especially true when it comes to each other.

Everybody picked up on Mercedes Jones' subtle weight loss, following her not so well known decision to undergo liposuction.

Everybody noticed when Noah, 'Puck,' Puckerman boarded his attic window, and added that second lock to his front door.

And everybody exchanged theories that one week, last year, when Brittany Lopez-Pierce stopped wearing her wedding ring.

Yes. It would seem that few are more qualified to spot difference than those that live on Magenta Lane... which was why it was so ironic that nobody had noticed the man parked in the black Mercedes-Benz at the end of the street...

Rachel isn't entirely sure what she's gotten herself into.

When she had given her surprise birthday bash the green light, she hadn't known that neighbors, in addition to the women who had organized the whole thing, would also be attending.

She couldn't have been more mistaken.

To a quiet musical backdrop of upbeat eighties classics, chit-chatting guests are heavily dispersed throughout Shelby's artsy lounge. They're well-dressed guests at least, with perfectly coiffed hair, poised temperaments, and a polite way of selling their steady intoxication as mere merriment. But they're everywhere nonetheless - some admiring Shelby's expensive paintings, whilst others take concealed jabs at one another over generous slices of birthday cake.

Rachel's no stranger to an air kiss, nor a handshake, but she's been introduced to so many of her neighbors' husbands that their faces have all begun to blur - a frenzied whirlwind of chiseled jawlines, perfect teeth, and strong engaging eyes.

She's dreading the moment that she's expected to recall a name. And if she has to hear, 'happy birthday,' one more time, she'll -

"Happy birthday, Rachel," an aloof voice sounds from behind.

The starlet turns away from Sugar's husband's rather embarrassing Prince Charles impression, and looks to the owner of the soft utterance.

Her polite grin dims the moment her eyes fall into Quinn's. "Oh," she mutters. "... Well thank you, Quinn."

"Really," - a dark chuckle - "you shouldn't look so pleased to see me. I might start to develop an inflated sense of myself."

And there's that haughty sarcasm that Rachel's come to expect from the immaculate woman.

Only now, it's without jest.

She shakes her head. "Oh no, it's not that I'm not pleased to see you. It's just that after our last encounter -"

"You apologized and I accepted. It's done," Quinn quite forcefully interrupts, all whilst returning the friendly waves and smiles of passing neighbors.

It's then that Rachel seizes the opportunity to study the intriguing woman - to dissect that polished smile. The sensual rouge lips that, with such little effort, accommodate it. Quite clearly it's muscle memory, second nature, Rachel concludes - a deeply ingrained art form that Quinn employs to massage the walls of social interaction, and have people believe that everything is perfect when it's not. And sure, that has its uses. But in her thirty-seven years, Rachel's learned: smiles that exist where they're not supposed to only keep pain in. Not out.

"You're right," she agrees once that quietly expectant hazel gaze returns to her. "I apologized. You accepted. It's done."

Quinn blinks at her once, but says no more about it. She bows her head to unclasp her python-skin purse, pulling from it a small black gift bag that's adorned with dozens of gold stars, which she then extends to the starlet. "Again, happy birthday."

Rachel slowly eases into a grin, nodding a couple of times as she accepts that Quinn Fabray most likely Googled her. "Major brownie points for the gold stars," she giggles, girlish.

"You might enjoy them, but I had a difficult time convincing the man at the store that I wasn't purchasing such a gift bag for a six year old. He kept trying to get me to confess to young children that I don't have," Quinn tells her, frowning at the memory. "But I then explained to him that metaphors are very important. He was so confused that he stopped talking... which was wonderful."

"They're so so important," Rachel murmurs reverently, accepting the bag with a delicate clasp. "Seriously Quinn, you really didn't have to purchase me a gift. But it's truly sweet that you did. Thank you. Wow - everybody's so thoughtful here," she breathes, awed as she takes in the full body of work that these strangers have put together for her. The expertly presented food. The delicious birthday cake. The banners, balloons, and alcohol - not to forget the handful of other presents that she'd been forced to transfer upstairs once more guests had begun to funnel in. "I'm, um... not really sure how to handle this level of generosity."

Quinn waves her off with a prim flick of the wrist. "All in a day's work. Besides," she begins, graceful as she steps aside to allow Kitty access to the kitchen, "I'm not really sure that it can be considered true altruism when I also have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor?"

"I'm currently helping the Mayor put together a fundraising event," Quinn explains. "One of the acts recently dropped out, and when you perform - well, you leave nothing to be desired. You'd be perfect. What do you say?"

Rachel doesn't _say_ anything. But she does take Quinn's gift to her ear and gently shake... a motion that she keeps up for such length of time that by the fifteenth second it can't be considered anything else but comical.

Uncertain at first, Quinn's cheekbones slowly ride up, at their fullest when she lets go of a fluttering melodic chuckle. She has no idea what Rachel's angle is, but it doesn't matter. The randomness alone is enough to tickle her. She notes the silly little party hat that's perched atop the starlet's head - no doubt Brittany's doing - and feels a dangerous warmth bloom in her chest.

It takes her a moment, but she composes herself and clears her throat. Though her smirk lingers. "I don't mean to interrupt your fun there. But I think we were just having a conversation, Rachel."

The gentle shaking ceases, the gift returning to thigh level, and Quinn waits. She waits, expecting to see glints of humor in Rachel's eyes.

But they never show up.

"Is there a problem?" she asks, tone so cool that you'd be forgiven for thinking her indifferent.

"Oh, I was just trying to work out what's in the box."

Quinn's eyebrow eases up.

"To see whether or not it's adequate enough payment for my musical services."

"Rachel -"

"You see, Quinn, I'm used to being well-compensated for my talents. So if you only purchased me a gift so that I'd perform at this fundraiser, I'd like to make sure that the exchange is fair." Rachel tags a cloying little smile on the end, and Quinn receives the message loud and clear - that Rachel won't be bought or bribed under any circumstances.

"Oh, we _really_ like you," Kitty purrs, clapping her hands and laughing from where she's stood eavesdropping behind the kitchen counter. "You can definitely stay. Anybody who gives Quinn a hard time stays."

"I'm not giving her a hard time," Rachel clarifies, never allowing her gaze to veer away from Quinn's. "Quite simply, I was establishing a boundary. I don't like to be manipulated or bought off under the guise of thoughtful gestures. Now I don't know what kind of social circles you're used to navigating. But if you want something from me, you ask. Understood?"

"... Perfectly," Quinn husks, much too absorbed in her fantasy of pinning Rachel to a bed and fucking her until she's twitching to pay her drunk catty neighbor any mind. "And I thoroughly respect your conviction. It's... refreshing." _To the point of arousal, actually._ "But the gift isn't a bribe. I want you to have it because it's your birthday."

Rachel squints, still dubious, to which Quinn releases an amused chortle.

"It isn't a bribe, Rachel."

"Well it very much seems that way to me."

"You have my word that it isn't," Quinn assures her, subtle in the unleashing of that classic Quinn Fabray smile. That disarming charm that, by day, politely assists with the clean-up of spilled beverages, but leaves you breathless and spilling from the core by night.

It hits Rachel like a car hits a tree, jolting her into thinking of her current stint of involuntary celibacy. She hasn't been touched by another in two months, and that smile - well, it makes her want to think about all that she's missing.

Which she doesn't appreciate when she's in the middle of a boundary set.

She folds her arms.

"Look, if anything the gift was intended to be... more of a lubricant."

"One thing to know about me, Quinn, is that I'm allergic to lubricant. Especially the social kind, where I'm the toy that's being greased up."

Kitty breaks into a fit of giggles. "Why isn't _this_ ," she snorts, gesturing a limp hand towards the two women, "a TV show?"

Noah Puckerman suddenly emerges, loosely slipping his muscular arms around Rachel's shoulders from behind. "Somebody say lubricant?" he asks. "'Cause this sounds like a convo I need to be a part of."

Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Mind my party hat, Noah," Rachel warns Puck - one of the few names she can remember, thanks to his unlikely mohawk. "It's doing a wonderful job of picking up the slack whenever my birthday smile falters."

"Rachel," Quinn stresses, in order to regain the star's attention, which she does with ease, "no tricks or... lubricant; would you like to perform at the aforementioned fundraiser?"

Rachel doesn't even have to think about it. "I'd love to."

"Brilliant."

Gently swaying his hips to the music, Noah sends a suave wink Quinn's way. "Now that that's decided, how about a dance, gorgeous?"

Kitty's the one to roll her eyes at that, because Quinn is no more gorgeous than she is - and _she_ doesn't have a husband! She's free, single, and ready to mingle. But Noah never seems to take that into consideration.

"Oh for God's sake! She's married, Puck! Let it go!" she huffs, just as Quinn parts her lips to rebuff the uncouth man's advances. As she always does. "And you're supposed to be Sam's friend, you God damn snake!"

"You sound a little upset there, Kitty," Quinn points out, voice slick with nice-nasty cheer.

"Now, now, ladies. It's my party, and I'm the only one who's allowed -"

"Where's Sam this evening?" Kitty challenges, stumbling out from behind the counter clasping her shot of Appleton Estate Rum. "Don't see you out with him much anymore. Trouble in paradise?"

Quinn's syrup-honey eyes take on a malicious sparkle. "I don't understand why you're so concerned about my husband. Shouldn't you be putting that energy into finding a husband of your own?"

"Oh," Kitty chuckles, "I could have your husband like _that_." She snaps her fingers.

"Says who? The spirits you've been drinking all evening?"

"You know what? _Sam_ didn't need alcohol when he tried to kiss me at Fraser's Christmas party last December."

"Kitty," Quinn sighs, bored, "you can fantasize about being with my husband and having my life as much as you want. But just - could you try to keep your obsession with me behind closed doors? You know, like you used to before Darla moved here and began using you as a mouthpiece to say all the things she isn't brave enough to?"

"You're in for _such_ a rude awakening!" Kitty snarls.

That strikes Quinn's core - the vitriolic certainty behind it. But whether there's truth to Kitty's claim or not - and she _will_ get the truth - Quinn knows she has no option but to laugh her drunk adversary off.

So she does just that.

"Sweetheart, the only rude awakening you need to be worried about is the headache you're going to have to deal with when you wake up tomorrow morning. Be sure to have your husband leave water and Asprin at your bedside. Oh that's right..." Quinn tuts, jutting her bottom lip out in feigned pity. "You're thirty-two and spend your nights cozying up to glasses of wine instead of a man. I'd despise me too."

Rachel shoots a worried glance over her shoulder at Noah, who proves to be no help at all as he just shrugs and continues to watch the show.

It's then that she decides she's not nearly as intoxicated as she should be. "Noah, could you get me a couple shots of something strong please?"

"What - now? It's just getting good."

Rachel watches Kitty and Quinn verbally tear chunks out of one another, and nods at the handsome man. "Yes, now. It's my party, and I have the right to order my guests around if I want to. You can either assist in my imminent inebriation, or you can go home."

Without another word, Noah makes to jet off on his assigned task - but then pulls back to tell Rachel's ear, "you know, you'd make a really great dominatrix. I dominate some of the wealthiest folk in Premont Falls, so I know what it takes. And you have it."

"You know what, Noah? Make that three shots instead of two," Rachel amends.

"Be right back."

He strolls by the sofa area, where Brittany's twirling Santana around to the music. She pulls her in close and cradles her jaw with both hands, leaning in for a kiss that's slow, tasteful, and a promise of things to come.

"Mmm," Santana hums as their lips part too soon. She runs her tongue out over her own, savoring the taste of the woman that she loves. "B, you gotta stop kissing me like that if you wanna stay for the rest of the party."

"I can't help it; my wife's so hot."

"Well, I guess there are worse problems to have."

Jenny, who's sat next to her husband on the leather suite, winces at the couple. "Do you guys have to be so disgustingly happily married all the time? It only further jades those of us who don't have what you do."

"Hey!" her husband, Joe, objects.

"Shut up and eat your cake."

Santana laughs, looking to her wife. "These poor heterosexual marriages."

"Actually, baby, there are no statistics to show that heterosexual marriages are any less financially stable than homosexual ones. I checked," Brittany informs her, before happily trotting off halfway across the room to retrieve her drink from a nearby table.

"And that's why my wife's smarter than all you guys," Santana tells the numerous puzzled expressions, "'cause she does her research."

Joslin turns her nose up, unable to resist her urge to shut the insufferable latina down: "Nobody's marriage is perfect. And I seem to remember that period of time, last year, when Brittany stopped wearing her wedding ring."

Santana pauses to think about what was just said to her. And then she smirks, because this hoe _really_ doesn't want it with her. "First off, you broke down Martha Stewart, Britt didn't stop wearing my ring. One of the kids she teaches swiped it, thinking he could sell it to pay off his mom's medical bills. Secondly, you're wrong, 'cause my marriage _is_ perfect. And thirdly, I'm this close to _wring_ -ing your neck - and I don't see anybody around that's gonna jump in to save your ass."

Joe Higgins takes that as his cue to peer off somewhere else, figuring that if he avoids eye contact perhaps Joslin won't expect him, as the only man within earshot, to step in.

"Always knew you had no low hangers, but this is ridiculous," Jenny whispers at him.

"Balls or no balls, you wouldn't want to take Santana on either," he hisses back. "Besides, my mother bought me this shirt. I don't want it torn."

"That's what I thought; nothing to say," Santana settles it, forcing Joslin to stand there half hiding behind her wine glass… which isn't nearly as big as she wishes. "I think I'll go find my beautiful wife and continue to be disgustingly happy now," Santana gloats, her gaze darting about the busy lounge for a hint of the soft blonde hair that she loves to smell first thing in the morning.

She ends up spotting Brittany over by the open kitchen area, stood amongst Rachel and Quinn. And Kitty, who - from what she can make out - appears to be so fucked up that she's actually trying to take Quinn on...

"Well what the jolly fuck is going on over here?" Santana asks once she's at her wife's side.

"Nothing," Quinn says, so calm it's downright mocking. She looks Kitty up and down and adds, "absolutely nothing."

"Get screwed, Quinn!"

"Hey!" Rachel steps in before Santana can pop Kitty in the mouth. "Kitty, you need to leave! Now!"

"Oh calm your tits; I'm leaving. I just – I just need a minute."

"How about twenty seconds?" Santana growls.

Brittany frowns as Kitty downs the shot in her hand and drops the glass down on the counter with a hefty clunk. "Okay, come on," she says, holding her hands out, ready to catch the intoxicated woman if need be, "me and San are gonna take you home before you throw up."

"Please do!" Rachel encourages, huffing.

She glimpses the room for any sign of Noah. More specifically, those shots she requested.

He's nowhere to be seen at first, but then she notices him chatting up a very attractive woman over by the aquarium that's built into the wall. "If you want something done," she grumbles.

As both Brittany and Santana guide Kitty to the front door, Quinn turns to Rachel. She draws in a breath and steadily releases it, primping her side bang as a means of restoring her couth. "I'm sorry to've behaved like that. I should've ignored her. "

Rachel scoops her party hat off of her head, done with all pretense of cheer. "Yes. You should've."

"I should've."

"Remind me never to get into an argument with you. If Kitty has any self-esteem left, it'll be by the grace of God."

"I am God. That's why she despises me."

Rachel glares.

"Okay. I see it's too soon to try to humor my way back into your good graces."

"Yes."

Quinn gives a subtle nod, suppressing a smirk. "Fair enough."

"You're in the proverbial dog house with me at the moment, Quinn. It's better suited to you if you just stop talking altogether."

The corners of Quinn's eyes droop sensuously as she subjects Rachel to a look so searing and intense that the starlet forgets her surroundings. The music, the people, the chit-chatter. The scent of alcohol and finger snacks. It all goes away, until it's just her and Quinn.

Suddenly unsure of all sorts of things, like whether or not her make-up, hair, and clothes are up to par, Rachel asks, "what?"

"So now I'm allowed to speak?"

"Stop it," Rachel tells her.

Quinn smirks. "I'm not doing a thing."

"Just to let you know: your charm is futile when it comes to me."

"Well," Quinn husks, watching Rachel through long pretty eyelashes, "I can always turn it up. Just for you."

Rachel swallows, certain that if she speaks she'll stumble over her words. She's also certain that Quinn is covertly flirting with her. About as certain as she is that Quinn is attracted to women. But she isn't sure that she wants to flirt back, because Quinn is married, and Rachel doesn't want to be her mother.

The two of them maintain eye contact, neither of them uttering a word...

"Oh my God, who's that?" Sugar suddenly whispers, close-by.

Both Quinn and Rachel blink themselves out of their bubble, and follow Sugar's line of vision towards the man in the tuxedo, who's stood on the welcome mat, holding the biggest bouquet of deep red luscious roses that any of them have ever seen.

"Oh my God," Rachel murmurs, and it is in that moment that Joshua's steely blue eyes connect with hers.

He smiles like the wolf that she knows he is, and chimes, "Happy birthday, beautiful."

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 **Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you thought.**


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